


End of the tunnel

by Vae



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-23
Updated: 2007-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Cyberwoman, what's left?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for [](http://10-cliche-fics.livejournal.com/profile)[**10_cliche_fics**](http://10-cliche-fics.livejournal.com/) for the prompt "The darkest hour is just before dawn". Spoilers for Cyberwoman. Claim table [here](http://woodsong-1978.livejournal.com/61195.html). Many thanks to [](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://lvs2read.livejournal.com/)**lvs2read** for the beta-read.

It starts after Lisa's death. If that was her death, anyway. Maybe she was dead a long time before, he's not sure any more. He can't believe that, though, won't believe it, she was still Lisa, right up until...no. Not until the moment Jack shot her. Until the moment that Lisa's voice had changed, until the creature speaking through her mouth wasn't Lisa any more, and maybe Jack hadn't shot her after all, maybe it had been the doctor that killed her, maybe it had all been his fault, maybe he'd brought the wrong man in to help, because it hadn't helped, had it? After everything he'd done, the months of caring for Lisa, keeping her hidden, trying to help her, he'd brought in one man from the outside, and now Lisa's gone, leaving him nothing, nothing but memories and a dull ache that’s always with him, flashing sharp when he steps back through the door.

"I thought I told you to take a week off."

He stops, looks up. Jack's in the doorway of his office, watching him. He'd thought the Hub was deserted. It's late enough, everyone should have gone home. Myfanwy's wheeling above, and he should hate her, really, she'd killed Lisa's body before Jack and the others killed Lisa's consciousness, but there's no sense of betrayal there. Myfanwy was never on the team. Still, neither was he. That much had always been clear, from the moment he'd arrived in Cardiff.

His hands fold in front of him. It's not a nervous gesture, or defensive. He just doesn't know what else to do with them. "You did."

"And yet, here you are." Jack heads down the stairs, slower than usual, certain, purposeful.

There's no point in denying that. His eyes slip away from Jack's face, and he resists the urge to step away when Jack gets closer. Maybe he can hate Jack. He needs to hate someone, something, needs to feel something through the numbness besides the heavy ache.

Jack stops in front of him, just too close. It's a habit Jack’s had as long as he’s known the man, like Jack's concept of personal space is smaller than everyone else's. He notices it more, now.

He can feel the warmth of breath on his face when Jack speaks. "Why?"

"Didn't want to think about the mess you'd all manage to get this place into, given a whole week." He pauses, risks another look at Jack's face. There's no condemnation there, not this time. There's nothing. Like Jack's dead behind his eyes, behind the calm mask.

The mouth moves, shaping words that make less sense when he can see the blankness behind them. "It wasn't a suggestion, Ianto. Go home. See your friends, your family. There is a world elsewhere."

"Not my world."

Comprehension floods into those eyes, tinged with a hint of something he can't read. Maybe it's pity. He couldn't stand it to be pity. Not when Jack's just given him another clear example that none of his workmates have ever given a thought to his life outside Torchwood, such as it was. That Jack's only just realised that he spends no time with family, that he's had no time for friends. He spent all his time with Lisa, or researching ways to help her, and now she's gone, his world's gone too, hollow hours dragging out one after another in an endless series of nothingness.

"So I'll be getting on with clearing out the basement, then, sir."

"It's taken care of." Jack doesn't move away, arms folding across his chest. They're nearly of a height. It's a shock when he realises he's actually just slightly taller than Jack. Jack's presence is taller. "First thing we did. Cleared it out, destroyed the machinery. It's gone."

He wonders bitterly if that's what Lisa was, at the end, to them, machinery, just machinery to be destroyed. He doesn't mean to speak, but words slip out anyway. "I wanted to ask you something."

Jack tilts his head slightly, shifts his weight, still doesn't move back. "Will you go home if I answer?"

It's not a yes. It's not a no, but it's not a yes, and he's not going to go home, back to his bed-sit, because it's not a home, it's just a place he rented, and he's seen more of it in the last three days than in the entire length of the lease, and he takes another breath before asking anyway. "When I was...when Lisa..." Her name hurts, hearing it, speaking it, more than just in thought. It's the first time he’s said it aloud since, and his throat tightens, strangling the vowels. She'd laughed the first time he'd said her name, at the equal emphasis his accent places on the second syllable. It's been so long since he heard her laugh, and it's still sharp in his memory. "Would you have shot me, really?"

"Is that it? I thought you were going to ask why we killed the pizza girl."

"Meghan." It's quiet, strained. He can still remember the look of someone - something - else inside her face, and the blood, everywhere, so much blood...

"What?"

"Her name was Meghan." His voice gains strength through the anger that he won't let himself feel for his own sake. "The pizza girl. She was called Meghan. She had a boyfriend in Penarth, and she was working pizza delivery to earn the money to pay for college. And you didn't kill her."

Jack's brow furrows. It's probably a studied effect. He suspects that most things Jack does are for carefully calculated effect. "Now you sound like Gwen. Apart from the not killing her bit. You were right there. Ianto, you definitely need to take some more time away from this place."

"No." He's not sure what he's denying. Not that he was there, although he wasn't. Maybe that he sounds like Gwen, because Gwen doesn't have the monopoly on heart and conscience and being human. Maybe that he needs to take more time away. "No." He forces his shoulders down, meeting Jack's gaze calmly, hating the mask of amusement that's back, needing to shake that as much as he needs to say this out loud. "You didn't kill her."

"Okay, so maybe it was Gwen, or maybe it was Owen. I don’t think it was Tosh, but we were..."

"No!" He takes a deep breath, not letting himself look away. "Lisa killed her."

It echoes through him, truth and not-truth, and Jack's still right there, right in front of him, amusement successfully banished. "No." Jack's denial is quieter, but no less emphatic. "That wasn't Lisa. You have to know that."

He swallows painfully, and if Jack's not going to move away, he has to, just one step back, legs knocking against the edge of the couch and tipping him off balance so he half-sits, half-falls, less controlled than he'd like. "I know that."

"Good." Jack stands over him for a full minute, staring down at him. He can't read Jack's expression, not this time, but it's not masked or hidden, just unreadable. At least, to him.

Then Jack shakes his head, offers one of those grins that light the entire Hub, and turns to walk back towards the stairs.

"You didn't answer me."

Jack pauses without turning. "On what?"

"Would you have shot me?" He pushes himself up so that at least he's sitting upright, if not standing.

Jack looks back over his shoulder, face carefully blank. "Would you watch me suffer and die?"

It's more of an answer than a yes or no would be. It's yes, and no, and why, and how, and acceptance, but not absolution. It's not enough, though, not after everything, not after the events echoing in his head for the last three days, out of all of them, one anomaly clear. “You kissed me.”

“Yes, I did.” Jack’s voice is as expressionless as his face, but his fingers curl slightly at his side before relaxing again.

That one’s not an answer, although it sounds more like it, but then, he hadn’t exactly asked a question. “That’s it? Just yes? I wake up with you kissing me and all you can say is yes? I’m not Sleeping fucking Beauty!”

“No, you were Dying fucking Beauty.” Suddenly, there’s anger in Jack’s tone, real anger, real response and he feels a savage satisfaction that maybe he’s got through that shell, got a genuine reaction from Jack Harkness.

“So you’re a necrophiliac now, is that it? Get turned on when people die?”

He’s gone too far. He knows it, when Jack looks away, even before Jack speaks, lightness back in his voice. “No one should have to die without knowing what it’s like to be kissed by Jack Harkness.”

“No one? It’s a general service, is it?” He can’t stop the words tumbling out, the fury that’s not directed anywhere, so helpless, so angry at the helplessness. “Take out a full page ad in the Daily Mail, why don’t you? Jack Harkness, final kisses delivered, once in a lifetime experience. Charge by the minute and time it with that fucking stopwatch.”

When Jack laughs, there’s an edge to it. It’s not Jack’s usual laugh, carefree and wholehearted. It’s hollow. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Check out advertising prices for me when you're back at work, find out how much it would cost to get a colour picture. Something near the sports pages.”

He pushes himself up from the couch, unsteady, watching Jack’s back in retreat. He can see the tension in the tight shoulders, see them rise and fall with the slow breath before Jack resumes speaking, any hint of levity gone. “Go home, Ianto Jones. Mourn your girlfriend, get drunk, let your friends drag you out of a club at three in the morning, do whatever it is you have to do to.”

He goes home. He mourns for his girlfriend. He gets drunk, alone in his bed-sit, on cheap whisky. In the morning, the ache is back.

The next night, he goes back to the Hub again.


	2. Light At The End

When the door rolls back, Jack's waiting. He's on the sofa, a mug of (inferior) coffee within easy reach on the table, a book propped up on one knee. He doesn't need to look up to see who's decided to come back to the Hub at nearly midnight on this clear, crisp night. He's been expecting it, after the previous night and the events of the week. This is not a man who's going to give way easily. Still, if he doesn't bend a little now, he'll break, and that's going to be messier for the whole team.

He turns another page of the book he's not reading, and reaches for the coffee, residual warmth in the mug seeping into his hands. It's not cold in the Hub, but it's never exactly hot. One of the advantages of an underground office on this planet. "Go home, Ianto."

The quiet footsteps stop, and he hears the heavy, final-sounding clunk of the door rolling closed again. For a moment he thinks Ianto might even have gone, but no, he can still hear the slightly ragged breathing above the steady hum of the servers tucked away under Tosh's desk. That, and the single word, half-spoken, half-whispered. "No."

He suppresses a sigh, and closes the book. At this point he'd be disappointed if Ianto did back down and leave, but this won't be easy either, living, breathing temptation and betrayal standing before him. Ianto's a mystery, always has been. Half of Ianto Jones' file is locked down, classified, encrypted, officially inaccessible, like the man himself. Given Ianto's affinity with computers, it's an easy guess who secured that file. "Go home."

"You can't give me orders out of work hours, sir." The words are less definite than they would usually be, a hint of uncertainty beneath the smugness. 

Jack ponders that briefly, half-tempted to point out that if this is out of work hours then, strictly speaking, Ianto is trespassing. That desire's killed when he looks up to see Ianto's face, carefully blank, expressionless. There are deep shadows under his eyes, and heavy lines etched around his mouth. It's been four days since the cyberman threat was eliminated, and it looks like Ianto's been dwelling on it ever since. As he should. "It's ten to pumpkin time, Cinderella. Go home."

"You're confusing your fairy stories, sir." There's a pause. "No."

It had taken Jack just twelve minutes to break the encryption on Ianto's file. It's going to take a lot longer than that to break the protections built up around the man. 

He sets down the book and the coffee, still watching Ianto, noting the tension in his posture, the rigid set of shoulders. "Then sit the hell down and stop making the place look untidy."

Usually, that kind of comment would bring a dry, witty response. Tonight, the most he gets is a sardonic quirk of an eyebrow as Ianto looks around the Hub. Jack has to admit that it's not Ianto's presence that makes the place untidy. It's the combination of his absence and the fact that everyone else has been drinking take-out coffee today.

The sofa dips as Ianto sits beside him. Silence stretches out between them. It's not an easy, companionable silence, but a tense, expectant silence, waiting to be filled. Jack's had about a century more practice at waiting than Ianto has. He props his feet up on the table, leans back, and waits. He knows that he appears completely relaxed, and to some extent, he is. He's run a full background check on Ianto Jones in the past two days, as well as a full sweep of all nine sub-levels of the hub, and found nothing more than the standard set of security threats. Of course, the man beside him is still an enigma, his potential unknown, and that's a challenge. Jack's never been able to resist a challenge.

Ianto looks uncomfortable. He's perched on the very edge of the sofa, shoulders hunched, hands gripping his knees. "I was going to resign, see. After…I was going to write out a letter, leave it for you. I even drafted it."

Jack doesn't doubt it. Ianto's thorough. It's part of what makes him such a valuable member of the Torchwood team. "Why don't you?"

The look he receives in response makes him wonder for a second if he's grown a second head. It wouldn't be the first time. But, no, definitely still limited to binocular vision, only one neck on his shoulders. 

"Would you accept it?"

Of course he wouldn't. That kind of resourcefulness and intelligence are too rare to be allowed to escape, not to mention the coffee-making ability and the stubborn loyalty. All Jack's got to do is turn that loyalty to Torchwood. To him. The idea's more appealing than it should be. "Are you offering me your resignation?"

Ianto looks away again. Jack watches his shoulders drop, rise and fall again with a deep breath before Ianto speaks. "No."

"Why?" He drops his feet back to the floor, sitting forwards, hands clasped loosely on his lap.

"I don't want to lose her. I can't lose any more of her. It's all I've got left, the memories."

Of course. Lisa. It all comes back to Lisa. Lisa, who Ianto loved so much that he put the population of the entire planet, maybe even the universe, at risk to try and save her. Even if Ianto hadn't realised the danger at the time. "You met her at Torchwood?"

"Yes." The word expresses more than it should be possible to say in one syllable. Anger and grief and loss and resentment, but Ianto's right. There's no way he'd be allowed to keep any memories related to Torchwood, personal or professional, and from everything Jack's discovered, Lisa was both.

He'd meant what he'd said the night before. Ianto needed to let himself grieve, not keep everything inside. It hadn't taken much thought to work out that Ianto hadn't had leisure to cultivate friends since moving to Cardiff, and a quick search had revealed that his nearest family - or what's left of it - is up in the valleys. There's no evidence that Ianto's been in regular contact with them, either. Torchwood's taken this man in and claimed his life entirely. "Tell me about her."

"Why do you want to know? She's gone." Ianto's voice is thickening. Jack won't look away, even though Ianto's staring fixedly ahead, a slow flush darkening his neck. "She's not any kind of threat to you now."

She is. If anything, she's more of a threat now, a martyr to the cause. Victim of Torchwood. Her end's dramatic enough to stir feeling in the least romantic soul and, despite appearances, Jack suspects Ianto's soul is far from unromantic. If sympathy won't work, he's not above provoking Ianto into anger to restore the balance, letting some of his own frustration and bitterness creep into his tone. "Maybe I'm trying to find out just what she had that made you fight so hard for a dead woman over your comrades, because I sure as hell couldn't see it in the cyberman that tried to kill us all!"

"She had everything!" Ianto's head snaps around, fury and grief twisting his face, eyes bright with anger and unshed tears. "She _was_ everything. _My_ everything, Jack, can't you get that? And Torchwood took everything from her, and her from…from…" Words falter, stumble over each other and eventually stop in a shuddering breath, resuming in broken starts. "She was…she was…"

That's the moment he judges time to reach out and touch, a single hand laid firmly on Ianto's shoulder to bring the words to a halt. "I know." And he does, deeper than anyone can ever know, deeper than he'll ever let anyone reach again, exactly what it is to lose someone who means so much, someone essential. Deeper than Ianto will know, who's too bound up in his guilt and confusion to be able to realise that Lisa wasn't his everything, just his everything for a time, and his responsibility for longer. "Ianto...I _know_."

Ianto blinks at him silently a few times, lips parted and swollen, shoulders heaving with the attempt to calm his breathing. Then Ianto's head drops forwards into his hands, and the muffled sound of a sob tears at Jack's heart. His hand slides across Ianto's back and pulls him in close, lifting Ianto's head to rest against his shoulder. He's had saltwater soaked shirts before, though rarely in such poignant circumstances. 

The barrier's fallen. Now he's just got to hope for time for the dust to settle before he starts building bridges - and he's got to hold on. This man's too valuable to be allowed to escape easily.


End file.
